


worthy

by oh_no_oh_dear



Series: those who are worthy [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Death, Hydra is the fucking worst, M/M, Mild Gore, Redwing is a good bro, Skinny!Steve, Violence, deserumed steve rogers, superpowered Sam Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8980489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_no_oh_dear/pseuds/oh_no_oh_dear
Summary: 0/10 Mission, Unsubscribed, Thumbs Down, Dislike, Unfollowed, Downvote, 1 Star on Yelp, Would Not Recommend Hydra to a Friend. (Or: We all gotta change sometime. Hydra still fucking sucks, though.)





	1. one.

1.

  
    “That’s an order, Sam,” Steve said quietly, letting some of the frustration leak into his voice. He waited for a reply as he rolled his shoulders, feeling his tired muscles complain a little… but his earpiece was silent. Steve sighed. Truly, his irritation had nothing to do with Sam and everything to do with the mission. What was supposed to be a simple enough mission (by his standards) had gone to shit almost as soon as they’d arrived. There were a handful of fanatic Hydra scumbags, as their intel had mentioned, but there were a lot of new local recruits, too. Seemed there were more civilians eager to join a racist terrorist organization bent on world domination than anyone had either predicted or hoped.  
  
    “Sam, come in.”  
  
_“I’m here, Cap.”_ Sam’s voice was clipped, sounding like maybe he was a little irritated himself. They had to find a way to take down this sick little operation without harming the civilians, filthy bigots or no. It wasn’t going to be easy.  
  
    “Confirm orders, Falcon.” Steve unbuckled his helmet and swiped at the sweat gathering at the back of his neck. It was a damned hot day and the mosquitos were out. Bugs didn’t care that he was Captain America; they bit him just the same as everyone else.  
  
_“Orders are to stay here and cover your dumb ass while you rush in and get yourself killed._ ** _Captain_** _.”_  
  
Okay, so maybe Sam was more than a _little_ irritated.  
  
    “I’m not gonna get killed, Sam. Just stick to the plan.”  
  
_“I will if you will.”_  
  
Another voice in Steve’s earpiece now, feminine and clipped, with just the barest hint of a difficult-to-place accent. _“If you two are finished airing your marital issues, I’ve got some movement by the west door.”_ Natasha sounded more amused than anything else, but they didn’t have time for Sam and Steve to be overprotective of each other to the point of stalling the damn mission.  
  
_“I dunno, I was kinda enjoying ‘Divorce Court’ here,”_ Clint’s voice drawled. Steve sighed again and was about to respond when Sam cut across him.  
  
    “ _I got this, guys,”_ Sam responded, although Steve wasn’t sure whether he was referring to Steve’s orders or Nat’s new information.  
  
Steve could just make out Sam’s winged form gracefully perch on a nearby roof, and he couldn’t see Natasha at all because...well, she was _Nat._ You weren’t gonna see her until she wanted you to. Clint was nearby, ready to make any attackers sincerely wish they’d worn arrow-proof armour.  
  
_“Cap--”_ the rest of Sam’s sentence was drowned out by the sound of an explosion.   
  
Nat swore loudly as chunks of debris came flying in every direction and Steve heard a very faint “Ow! Shit!” from Clint. Steve’s eyes followed the billow of smoke, his entire body refusing to respond from shock-- and it was gone in a split second.  
  
    “Sam.”  
  
No response. Steve’s jaw tightened, and it took all of his self-control not to go haring off into the middle of the smoking building.  
  
    “Nat.”  
  
    “ _I’m fine._ ”  
  
    “Barton.”  
  
    “ _Here, dad._ ”  
  
Steve ignored Clint’s little barb, steadied himself, and tried again.  
  
    “Sam?”  
  
Nothing.  
  
_Shit._  
  
_“Rogers, we should--_ _god_ ** _damn_** _it!”_ Natasha swore as she focused her binoculars on the wreckage of the building, already knowing what she was going to see.  
  
Steve was never known for being level-headed when it came to people he cared about.  
  
_“Nat…”_ Clint said, sounding like he just wanted this nightmare to be over so he could sleep.  
  
_“I know, I saw him,”_ she replied, sighing long and low as the small figure of Captain America ran towards the catastrophe, automatically using his shield to deflect the inevitable spray of bullets from inside what was left of the building.  
_“Let’s go, Clint. Cover’s blown anyway.”  
  
_

\---

 _Sam. Gotta find Sam._ Steve lurched back suddenly, just barely missing a wild swipe from a machete-wielding attacker. The slight vibration of smacking the man in the face with the flat of the shield was the only thing remaining of that encounter as Steve darted through the billowing smoke and dust, his eyes looking for--  
  
_Oh, god.  
  
_ Sam was always a good fighter, an almost unparalleled flyer with nerves of steel and a propensity for flinging himself into danger surpassed only by the Captain himself. Steve mentally cursed himself as he sprinted down the hall towards the dark shape on the floor. He wouldn’t let himself believe-- it couldn’t-- Sam wasn’t--  
  
Sam had clearly managed to angle himself away from the brunt of the explosion, folding his wings into a large barrier, but the force of the blast had flung him into a wall. Steve let out a shaky breath; Sam’s eyes were closed, but Steve could see that he was breathing shallowly. _Fuck._ Steve had thought-- and for a second, he felt like he was _done_ , it was _over_ if Sam was dead--  
  
But he wasn’t.  
  
Steve hurried over to him, wary of further attack even as he focused on getting to his friend and partner as quickly as he could.  
  
Almost as though he sensed that Steve was nearby, Sam stirred, lolling his head to one side and coughing weakly. His eyes fluttered open, and Steve stopped dead in his tracks. They were--   
  
_Just a trick of the light._ _Focus._  
  
    “Sam?” Steve knelt beside him, grimacing as he took in the nasty slash in Sam’s suit, and the sluggishly bleeding laceration underneath. Sam just coughed again in reply, waving his hand weakly.  
“Sam, can you --” Steve broke off, doubling over with a sudden coughing fit. The smoke from the explosion and the subsequent fires was filling the hall, but that’s not what was bothering Steve. His lungs felt like they were on _fire_ , and as soon as he took a shuddering gasp of air, Steve knew something was wrong (well, even more wrong than the usual Hydra-related bullshit.) He swayed on his knees beside Sam, his ears full of static from the earpiece and the gunfire, screaming and shouting that seemed so far away right now.  
  
Sam coughed again, a pained-sounding huff of air-- but this time, his eyes shot open and he clutched at the gash in his side, his hand flinching away again as it touched the stinging raw flesh of his injury.  
  
    “ _F_ _uuuuuuuck,_ ” he hissed, his eyes darting around and finally focusing on Steve, and Steve knew something was _really_ wrong with him, because Sam’s irises were a strange metallic bronze, which made no sense, and Steve felt like he was having a goddamn asthma attack, which made even _less_ sense--  
“Steve-- _ow_ … shit… Cap… Cap, you okay?” Sam was struggling to sit up, his eyes ( _they’re brown, of fucking course they are. You’re hallucinating, old man_ ) on Steve’s face. Steve just coughed and half-waved in a dismissive ‘I’ll-be-okay’ gesture.  
“Aw _fuck,_ this hurts--” Sam’s fingers hovered near his injury again, but his medical training kicked in and he merely bent over the wound to examine it without further touching it. Steve finally opened his mouth to speak, but he was distracted by a sudden burst of talking from his and Sam’s earpieces.  
  
    “ _\--rridor, repeat, stay out of the southwest corridor--”_ this was Nat, sounding urgent and breathless, the sounds of a gunfight almost drowning out her voice.   
  
    “Nat-- what’s in the southwest corridor?” Sam said, his jaw clenched with the effort of getting his feet under him. Steve held out his hand to help Sam up, but he couldn’t even concentrate on the conversation; breathing _hurt._ It hurt a lot more than an asthma attack should have… and there was the strange pain, nasty and prickling. Spreading across his skin. _Under_ his skin?  
  
    “ _Sam? You’re okay. Good-- look, stay_ ** _out_** _of the research labs. One of these snivelling cowards just told me that they have some kind of toxin-- Sam, they_ ** _knew we were coming._** _Where’s Steve?_ ”  
  
Steve couldn’t reply; his world had narrowed to the agony spreading from his chest. It felt like ...like… he gasped and doubled over, leaning on the shield to keep from falling over. He felt like his damn bones were being crushed by an invisible vise, his stomach was churning, hot and sickly, he could hardly breathe… _Some kind of toxin?_ Despite his reputation as being an unstoppable force, he wasn’t immortal or unkillable. But all he had to do was wait out the ...poison? Toxin? His body would likely get rid of it soon enough.  
  
    “Nat. I’m… here,” he wheezed. Sam frowned briefly at him, clearly concerned about his struggle to breathe, but then he looked away, glancing around the corridor with a deepening scowl.   
  
    “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” Sam said, his voice rough from the effort of staying upright, and the dust and smoke ( _and toxins. fucking Hydra._ ) he was breathing in.  
  
    “ _Don’t keep us in suspense,_ ” Clint said, breathing heavily over the unmistakable _thwip_ of an arrow being loosed (followed by a gurgled scream as it found its target.)  
  
    “The good news is that all the scientists are dead,” Sam continued. He tapped Steve’s shoulder, and he straightened up to look where Sam was indicating.  
  
    “ _The bad news is the only way you could know that because you’re near the damn research lab,_ ” Natasha groaned.  
  
    “I wish I didn’t… have more bad news…” Steve said, his voice even raspier than Sam’s.  
  
    “ _Steve? You sound--_ ”  
  
    “I’m pretty sure… the toxin… is in the hallway…”  
  
    “ _You sure?_ ” Clint’s voice had an edge of _please-no-we’ve-had-a-bad-enough-day_.  
  
    “Green… smoke means bad stuff. Trust me… I’m an ….expert on Hydra,” Steve said dryly, trying his damndest not to sound as weak as he suddenly felt.  
  
Sam’s eyes were squeezed shut again.  
  
The alarms and flashing lights made Sam’s head ache, but that wasn’t the main problem. No, _that_ would be the weird… shiver… he kept getting. Like a light, feathery touch at the back of his neck, like the softest breath against his goddamn brain (look, he knew that sounded weird, but _you_ try being poetic after getting your ass knocked out and then breathing in some Hydra fuckery.) And sometimes when he blinked, his eyes would strain suddenly, and everything became too sharp and the colours too bright and the proportions looked a little bit off  
  
Oh, and also he kept hearing soft voices murmuring when he knew himself and Steve were the only living people in the vicinity.  
  
So, there was _that_.  
  
    “Captain.”  
  
The voice sounded strangely muffled, as if Steve’s ears were stuffed with cotton. He squinted, trying to see through the dust and that damned flashing red light, but the figure that spoke was shadowy, partially obscured by rubble and Steve’s watering eyes.  
  
    “I was afraid we’d broken your birdy’s wings,” the person-- a woman-- said, moving closer. “I’m _so_ glad he’s all right.”  
  
Steve straightened warily and picked up his shield. He had a little trouble lifting it.  
  
    “I’m real touched by your concern,” Sam sneered, darting the fastest of worried looks at Steve, who had now taken on a sickly pallor and was covered in sweat.  
  
Steve looked at the woman, taking in her singed labcoat and the way she seemed to favour her left leg. Injured. Not a trained fighter. Probably not a threat. Probably.  
“I’d worry about your own situation if I were you,” Steve said, leveling her with a look.  
  
_Where the hell are Nat and Clint?_ He had to stall until the effects of the toxins wore off. He had to protect Sam, who was probably succumbing to the toxins…  
  
...actually, Sam looked… fine. A little jumpy; he kept looking up as though someone had just called his name, but… he wasn’t shaking, he wasn’t coughing any more… it was _Steve_ that felt like hell. But he would still have Sam’s back. He always would.  
  
Okay. Protect Sam, get Nat and Clint, arrest this scientist, get her to talk. Steve mostly felt like throwing up.  
  
    “You’re not looking so well, Captain,” the woman said with amusement in her voice. Stubborn anger flared up in Steve. _Never let ‘em see you stumble._  
  
    “Never felt better,” Steve said, forcing his usual bravado. He felt hot all over, and the ache from earlier seemed to have settled into his bones, making every movement stiff and painful. But he wouldn’t let this woman know that. He’d never let them see his weakness.  
  
The tiniest motion beside him; Sam’s fingers inching to his sidearm. Steve straightened as best he could ( _Jesus_ , his back hurt), knowing Sam would wait for either an attack from the woman or Steve’s sign to go after her. For now, get her talking. _These Nazi bastards love talking about their plans._  
  
    “Are you sure, Captain? You look a little pale,” the woman said, moving close enough to be visible now. She had a small, heart-shaped face, a darling little smile, and eyes that had not the faintest glint of humanity left in them.  
  
    “Yeah, haven’t had time to work on my tan,” Steve said with an ugly smile. “Been busy taking out the _trash_.” At this, the woman scoffed, placing her hands on her hips as though chastising a child.  
  
_Who are you, stranger?_  Sam tried not to jump as he heard it _again_ , small and whispery, an accent he couldn’t place… strange, far away, high off, but clearly spoken in his mind. He couldn’t let this woman (or even Steve) see that he was losing it. _  
__  
__The air is black with burning, brother. Are you well?_  
  
    “Brother?” Sam didn’t know he’d spoken aloud until both the woman and Steve looked at him. The woman looked disgusted and opened her mouth to say something to Sam, but Steve cut across her.  
  
    “Just-- _don’t_. You don’t talk to him, you talk to _me._ ” Steve didn’t have the damn patience to hear what someone from freakin’ Hydra had to say to his Black partner.  
  
Sam didn’t even respond, looking slightly off to the side again. Maybe Sam’s injuries weren’t external (not counting the gash in his side-- and it was telling of their fucked-up lifestyles that that barely counted as an injury to them anymore), but he didn’t like he was entirely focused either.  
  
    “Very well, Captain. Do you remember someone named Viktor Auer?” she asked quietly, glancing down the hall. Steve followed her gaze, barely able to make out a lithe figure carefully making its way towards them. _Natasha?_

    “I might,” Steve said evasively. If having the lifeless gaze of a serial killer and being a goddamn Hydra scientist hadn’t been enough evidence (it was), hearing that name cemented it. This was their big bad. A petite woman who couldn’t have yet hit age 30.  
  
    “You arrogant bastard-- you _remember him_ ,” she hissed, rage finally breaking through her icy facade. Steve was still keeping tabs on Natasha’s approach, noting with well-concealed worry that he didn’t feel better at all. His body wasn’t breaking down whatever was in the toxin.  
  
Sam was very still and quiet beside him. Steve didn’t look at him, just briefly touching his arm to bring him back around. Neither of them could be distracted… especially because the shield seemed to be getting heavier with each passing second.  
  
    “Okay, yeah. I remember Auer. Nazi scientist. Scum. Plenty of those in Hydra,” Steve said dismissively, knowing it would make the woman angrier. When people were angry, they made mistakes that he and Sam could take advantage of. Steve tried to get a better grip on the shield without making it obvious that it as a struggle to properly grasp it. _Shit._  
  
    “I’m his granddaughter. Josephin Auer.”  
  
    “Well, miss, I can’t say I care much. Like I said-- dime a dozen,” Steve said shortly, shrugging (was it just him, or did his uniform feel kinda heavy, too?)

    “My grandfather wasn’t so commonplace, Captain. He studied you--”  
  
    “Big deal. You freaks have been obsessed with Cap since he got started.” Sam finally spoke again, his voice perfectly unimpressed in the way that only he could pull off.  
  
    “You filthy--” the woman took one look at Steve’s face before abruptly switching back to the topic. “ _No_ , Captain. You and I both know you’re famous because you’re the only soldier to receive the serum… in its pure, untainted form. There _have_ been other attempts, yes? Some rather more successful than others?” She paused, the corner of her mouth quirking. Steve didn’t rise to the bait. _Bucky._  
Getting no response from Steve except a dangerous narrowing of his eyes, the woman continued, “No one else could figure out the original formula...”  
  
Steve could barely stop himself from swaying; he put his arm on Sam’s shoulder both in an exaggerated display of disinterest and to keep from falling over. Over the woman’s shoulder, Natasha approached slowly, the look on her face telling Steve and Sam that Auer wasn’t getting out of there alive if she didn’t play her cards right.  
  
    “If you say so,” Steve said, shortly before dissolving into a fit of coughing that he just couldn’t keep down.  
  
Sam stiffened beside him, his face looking pained as though he had a sudden headache. Steve glanced at him, but Sam was still focused on both the woman and Natasha, who was almost close enough to grab her.  
  
The woman was looking intently at Steve, something that might have been a smile playing on her lips again. “He found something that no other scientist could, my grandfather.”  
  
Natasha stepped beside her and raised her gun, but the woman barely flinched at the touch of metal to her temple. Steve gave Natasha a look-- _Wait_ \-- and frowned at Auer.  
  
    “What’d he find?” Steve asked. The woman ignored him, frowning suddenly at Sam. Natasha almost-- _almost_ did a double-take when she glanced at Sam as well. Steve’s eyes darted over to his friend, and--  
  
Sam’s eyes glinted in the dusty hallway, unmistakable. A cold, coppery colour, like cat’s eyes in a dark room. He was murmuring quietly, and Steve couldn’t make out the words--  
  
    “Sweetie, I’d act like I had a gun to my head if I were you. _Talk_ ,” Natasha hissed at the scientist, her irritation clearly mounting.  
  
Steve couldn’t… make out the words? Everything was starting to sound muffled again, like someone was holding pillows over his ears. It was taking everything he had not to fall, and darkness swam at the corners of his vision--  
  
    “ _No!”_ the woman tried to step forward, but the wicked sharpness of an arrow nudged her ribs and she froze.  
  
    “Hey,” Clint said casually. Natasha looked him over, _tsk_ ing irritably as she took in his newest bruises and cuts.  
  
    “Where _were_ you?”  
  
    “ _There was a fuckin’ sale at IKEA_ ,” Clint snapped. “Where the hell do you think I was?”  
  
    “Took your sweet time.”  
  
    “Yeah, well… you left a lot of guys to beat up.”  
  
    “You needed the practice, to be honest.”  
  
    “You can’t… you… you’re _human_ …” the scientist was speaking again, not even acknowledging the two bickering assassins at her sides. Sam raised his eyebrows and blinked-- but his eyes still glinted when he glanced at Steve. _Okay, maybe I_ ** _wasn’t_** _imagining things_.  
  
    “What… the _fuck--_ ” Clint began when he noticed Sam’s eyes.  
  
    “Yeah, I’m pretty goddamn sure I’m human,” Sam said shortly to the woman. “I know _your people_ don’t think of _my people_ as human, but--”  
  
    “No, _no_ , this… the tests, this never happened… we had so many candidates, _worthy_ candidates, and _you_ , you _n_ \--”  
  
    “I… fucking… _dare_ … you… to… finish… that… thought,” Natasha said softly, pressing the muzzle of her gun against the other woman’s temple again.  
  
    “No matter,” the woman said, although her voice was shaky. “The mission is a success.”  
  
    “Your definition of ‘success’ is fucked, lady,” Clint snorted.  
  
    “Is it? Your dear Captain seems a bit... _off,_ no?” The woman was darting looks at Sam, who was openly ignoring her.

    “What is made, can be unmade,” she said softly. She was wholly focused on Sam now, visibly trembling with suppressed anger over who-knew-what.  
  
They all looked at Steve. Three pairs of eyes widened.  
  
    “Steve!”  
  
    “ _Cap_ ? Holy sh--”  
  
    “Hey--”  
  
The woman took advantage of their momentary distraction, and several things happened in rapid succession--

Sam suddenly straightened and then froze up, looking off to the side of the blown-out wall that led outdoors--

  
The woman whipped a knife out of her sleeve (Hydra _loved_ knives) and lunged with surprising strength not at Steve, but at _Sam_ \--

Natasha silenced her “Hail Hydra!” mid-‘Hail--’ with a single bullet--  
  
The previously unseen Hydra agents who’d been gearing up outside to storm the hallway suddenly started screaming in agony, swatting at the air--  
  
And Steve slumped to the floor, the shield slipping from his fingers.

* * *

 

    “....the right file?”  
  
  
  
  
  
    “--measurements, but those will have to--”

 

  


    “...tests. Right, the blood sample…”

 

  
Steve felt like he was lying at the bottom of a swimming pool, staring upwards while people came and went. Conversations were muffled, only snatches of it making any sense--  
  
He sometimes felt a chill on his chest when they checked his breathing--  
  
A sharp nip at his skin as another injection was administered--  
  
His body rocked from side to side as the sheets were changed--  
  
But he couldn’t quite break the surface of consciousness. Not until he heard--

 

    “...him. He doesn’t look like five kinds of shit any more. Been almost conscious a couple of --yeah. Really? Jesus, I might suck you off right there in the hallway if you bring me coffee. I’m _joking_ , man. Kinda.” The speaker paused and huffed out a laugh.  
“Uh-huh. Listen, you seen Wilson since last time? What? Really? Shit. Even you?”  
  
He struggled towards consciousness, feeling his chest tighten with every movement-- Sam, he had to get to Sam, Sam had been hurt, Sam had _had cold copper eyes no no wait_ , _that’s not right_ ...  
  
    “Whoa, Cap, just … yeah, there you go. Breathe.” The voice was a little easier to make out now, just the slightest trace of unease in its otherwise casual tone. Barton.  
“Hey. You awake?”  
  
He felt like his eyelids weighed a tonne each, but he managed to get them half-open. The overhead lights were bright, too bright, and Steve hastily shut his eyes again.  
  
    “You want me to get that? The lights? You’re all doped up, so they gotta be a bitch on your eyes.”  
  
There was a small _click_ , the sound of Clint walking a few paces away, and then the _flick_ of what had to be a lightswitch. Steve chanced dragging his eyes open again, but this time the room was lit only by a table lamp.  
  
    “Thanks,” Steve croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. Clint nodded and hesitated.  
  
    “Can I … the lamp. I can’t…” he gestured to his hearing aid, and Steve squinted woozily up at him.  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “The lamp. I gotta move it closer to your face. Need to see your mouth.”  
  
    “Oh. Yeah, okay.” Steve tried to sit up so he could try to sign a little bit, but his body felt as heavy as a sack of car tires. Or something. He still didn’t feel quite all there yet.  
“Clint. What… happened? Where’s Sam?” If his stomach lurched unpleasantly at the thought that something had happened to Sam, he hid it well.  
  
    “Uh… well, Sam’s alive,” Clint said, reaching for a pen on the bedside table and twiddling it nervously between his fingers.  
  
    “Alive’s… a start,” Steve returned, raising an eyebrow. The tightness in his chest was easing a little bit, but his back was still killing him. He tried not to think about that too much.  
  
    “Shit. I gotta be honest, I was kinda hopin’ to be gone when you woke up?” Clint said, laughing a little.  
  
    “Thanks, buddy. Why’s that?”  
  
    “Well…”  
  
    “Well?”  
  
    “I didn’t really wanna have to tell you.”  
  
    “Barton, so help me I will strangle you with my IV. Spit it out.”  
  
    “You’re back in top form,” Clint mumbled. “Uh. Wilson. He’s gone-- like, disappeared, not _dead_ .”  
  
    “What the hell d’you mean, disappeared?”  
  
    “Not disappeared-disappeared, Nat’s keeping tabs on him. Well. Trying. He left. After the Hydra shit went down.”  
  
_Bone-crushing pain. Sam’s eyes glinting in the dark._ That had been a shitty damn mission, even by their standards.  
  
    “Why?”  
  
Clint was silent for a moment, which was a little bit unusual for him.  
“We’ve been trying to figure that out, Cap. Something’s wrong.”  
  
_Cold copper eyes flashing._  
  
    “Something like what, Clint? Is he in trouble?”  
  
    “No, no… I think? He just won’t left me or Nat or even _Fury_ near him--”  
  
    “Who turned off the light?”  
  
Steve barely had a moment to register the fact that another person had entered the room before the lights were back on, making him flinch and squeeze his eyes shut again.  
  
    “Sorry. It was hurting his eyes, so…”  
  
    “Ah. Well, sorry, Captain Rogers, but I just need the light for a few more minutes so I can check you over, all right? Glad to see you’re awake!” The voice carried the gentle encouragement of someone who’d been a nurse for a long time, mixed with the firmness of someone who’d… been a nurse for a long time. Steve forced his eyes open, focusing with a little trouble on the middle-aged woman smiling at him.  
  
    “Makes one of us,” he murmured, giving her a small smile in return.  
  
    “Not feeling so good?” she asked sympathetically, reaching for a glass of water that Steve hadn’t noticed on the table beside him.  
  
    “Been worse,” he lied. She gave him a look that told him she knew he was lying, but she didn’t say anything more as she held out the glass to him. He reached for it and froze, suddenly taking in how thin his arm was, the skin bruised and tender where the needle from the IV had been until recently. He looked over at Clint, who seemed unable to keep eye contact, and then at the nurse, who looked back with gentle sympathy.  
  
    “What happened?” His voice sounded the same to his ears; a little tired, a little thin, but --  
  
    “Uhm.” Clint looked distinctly uneasy now, but Steve didn’t care.  
“I _really_ shouldn’t be the one to--”  
  
    “What. _Happened._ ”  
  
    “Shit. Well… that toxin stuff, it’s… I dunno, Banner said it nixed the serum. Maybe. And-- they’re still running tests, so don’t freak out… but they’re saying you’re ...y’know.”  
  
    “I’m what? I’m _what,_ Barton?” Steve’s voice was rough, and he felt the beginnings of a migraine behind his eyes.  
  
    “You’re… y’know. Little.”  
  
The answer was so unexpected that Steve let out a sudden bark of laughter.

    “Little?”  
  
    “Well, y’know. How you were in the history books. Before the serum.”

 _Little._ Well, that was one word for it. Little, sickly, _“Too damn stubborn to die like you shoulda,”_ more than one person had hissed at him. Jesus.

    “I see.”  
  
    “You see?”  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
    “I mean… it’s a pretty big change, Cap.”  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
    “You’re not upset? I'd be pretty fucked up about it--" Clint cringed a little, having said rather more than he'd meant to.  
  
    “Nah,” he lied again. “Not much I can do about it, Clint.” Steve shrugged, real exhaustion pressing him back into the mattress.  
“Miss, could I trouble you for a mirror?”  
  
The nurse hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Captain Rogers…”  
  
_Am I ‘Captain’ anything anymore?_  
    “Just for a quick look. I promise I’ll be fine. Just wanna… come to terms.” He added a small, sad smile for good measure. That usually worked no matter how big or small he was.

 

The silence that permeated the room in the few moments it took for the nurse to get a hand mirror went beyond ‘awkward’ and landed firmly in ‘agonizing’ territory. Steve was lost in his own thoughts; Clint didn’t know what to say. It was a relief when the door opened again.  
  
Steve let out a slow breath when he lifted the mirror to his face. His eyes were the same. He didn’t know why he expected them to be different. They looked a little too big, now, on this face. But… the pinched cheeks, the wide forehead… it was him, all right. A ‘him’ he hadn’t seen in over 70 years. Or in a few years, depending on how you counted these things. His finger poked delicately at the bruised-looking shadows under his eyes. He remembered those, too. Even his hair seemed too long now, almost falling into his eyes.

  
    “You’re taking this pretty well,” Clint started saying, just before Steve started wheezing. His body wasn’t playing along with his clench-jawed ‘everything-is-fine’ routine.  
“Never … never mind,” Clint amended awkwardly, watching the nurse press an inhaler into Steve’s hands.

 

\---

 

Later, Natasha was fidgeting at his bedside, dragging her nail over the rough fabric of the armchair that she’d moved to sit near him. Steve was quiet, watching her. She almost never fidgeted, at least in public; but Steve was grateful for the distraction from his own aching body. Had his back _always_ hurt this much before the serum?  
  
He knew that she was so focused on the ugly pattern of the armchair to avoid looking him in the face. He’d noticed that; with the exception of the nurse from earlier, people were having a hard time looking at him. Maybe they didn’t want him to see the naked pity in their eyes. He could tell, anyway.  
  
    “We know where he is,” Nat said quietly, using the tip of her finger to press into the stuffing poking out of a tiny hole in the chair.  
  
    “Then why--?”  
  
    “We think something might be wrong, Steve.”  
  
    “Then we have to help him.”  
  
    “I don’t know. He’s not physically hurt, as far as I can tell. But he keeps… _evading_ me.” She almost spat the word, and Steve hid his surprise; after all, who could hide from Natasha Romanov?  
  
    “Where is he?”  
  
Natasha didn’t answer for a few moments. She finally looked him in the eyes, and what was there was worse than pity. It was _guilt_ .  
  
    “Fuck. Gettin' sick of my friends disappearing on me,” Steve muttered. He was going for humour, but missed by a wide margin. Natasha’s expression softened, which told him two things-- she was letting him see that she was sorry (but not sorry _for_ him, which he appreciated,) and she’d thought the same thing.  
“Natasha, where is he?”  
  
    “We didn’t tell you because we _know_ how you are. You shouldn’t go after him in your condition--”  
  
    “I joined the damn army ‘in my condition.’ Where is he?”  
  
    “Rogers.”  
  
    “ _Romanov._ Nat. Please.”  
  
At the use of her nickname, some of the fight seemed to go out of her. She tried for her old sardonic smirk, but just looked sad and tired.  
  
    “I’m not supposed to…”  
  
    “Yeah, well, you better.” He paused. “And since when do you do what you’re _supposed to_ , anyway? Sure as hell wasn’t when I was in charge of the team.” If there was a small hitch right before he said ‘ _was’_ , Natasha didn’t show that she’d noticed.  
  
The tiny twitch of her mouth might as well have been a huge smile. “I’ll take you with me. But we might not be able to catch up with him.”  
  
    “We’ll make plenty of headway with the two of us,” Steve said encouragingly.

* * *

  
Two months. 

  
It took them over two months-- exactly 65 days, by Steve’s count -- until he and Natasha found Sam. Until Sam _let_ them find him.  
  
It was the oddest thing. It was pretty damn difficult to hide from one of the most skilled assassin-spies in the world, working alongside the most relentless, stubborn ~~super~~ -soldier… but Sam managed it. Not by a lot, but somehow, he had always been gone at least a day before they got to whatever guesthouse or motel he had been occupying. He’d seemed content to be monitored from afar, but the moment they made a move to come to him, he’d bolted.

 

It reminded Steve unpleasantly of the last time he’d gone looking for one of his best friends. Neither he nor Nat brought that up, but it was there, laying heavily upon them. Why was Sam avoiding them?  
  
Sam was an incredibly smart man, as well as having a smile that made Steve feel a funny jolt (but that was irrelevant and Steve wasn’t even sure why he was thinking about that right now _anyway._ ) But he was no spy-- he’d said so himself. Natasha didn’t say she was getting frustrated at him constantly dodging her and Steve, but the moody way she ordered extra sides of bacon at the various diners they slumped into said it all.  
  
    “-- I mean, he doesn’t--”  
  
    “-- ‘ _want to be found, Nat_ ’,” she finished, doing an impressive imitation of Steve’s voice. Maybe she added a little bit of nasal Dorky White Guy flair to it. Steve ‘tch’ed and waved his hand dismissively, wordlessly irritated. They were starting to snipe at each other, just a little bit.  
“We’re getting closer,” Natasha mused, reaching for the pickle spear on Steve’s plate. Ignoring the light slap on the hand he gave her, she heaved a long sigh and munched on the pickle, pointedly ignoring Steve’s glare. After a long moment, he echoed her sigh and took his glasses off to press the heels of his hands against his eyelids. He looked drawn and tired, his hair far past ‘fashionably tousled’ and straight into ‘stressed grad student at 3am.’ His cheeks weren’t quite as sunken as they’d been a few months ago (thanks to the copious amounts of fast food and the protein shakes that Natasha shoved in his hand every morning without fail; neither had been so easily available the last time he’d weighed this little.) He was making up for that with a lack of sleep.  
  
Natasha was eyeing him, and when he didn’t move his hands from his face, she very briefly bit her lower lip, hesitating.  
    “I’ll go on ahead to the next town, do some recon.”  
  
    “Fuck off, Romanov.” The words had no heat behind them, and Steve even gave a ghost of a smile as he finally lowered his hands to blink owlishly at her.  
  
    “I’m _offering_ to fuck off, Rogers. You have to rest.”  
  
    “I’ll rest when we find Sam.”  
  
    “You won’t find Sam if you die of a heart attack,” she muttered. Steve looked deeply unimpressed, using the edge of his t-shirt to clean the lenses of his glasses. (Actually, one of Sam’s. Nat had chosen not to comment when Steve had forlornly picked the thing up as they checked Sam’s apartment for clues.)  
  
    “Not a heart attack.”  
  
    “Fine, heart palpitations.”  
  
    “You gonna list my entire medical chart, Nat?” Steve sounded tired, but his words had lost their bitter edge and become more gently teasing.  
  
    “No. I don’t have _that_ much time. I just think we could get more done if we split up. You can retrace our steps, and I can scout ahead.”  
  
    “Am I slowing you down.” His voice didn’t lilt upwards at the end, making it a question, but it still was one. Nat very carefully didn’t show how the question rattled her slightly, because the answer was _yes_ and she couldn’t, wouldn’t say it.  
  
    “Don’t be an idiot, Steve. Of course not.” A smooth lie. Steve looked away, the air heavy between them; of course he knew she was lying. They both did.

Nat suddenly looked up, spying a movement outside the glass pane enclosing one side of their booth. She mentally cursed herself for being sloppy; they were running themselves ragged and had let their guard down; they _never_ should be sitting next to a huge glass window--

  
    “Nat,” Steve said, slowly putting on his glasses and turning to look outside along with her. “Nat, am I really that sleep-deprived, or--”  
  
    “No, Steve. That’s a huge fucking bird.”  
  
    “So I’m _not_ hallucinating.”  
  
    “Not unless there’s something in our coffee. Which I'm not ruling out, by the way.”  
  
    “Well, what do we--”  
  
The bird, a large hawk, fixed them with a surprisingly exasperated expression, considering its… well… bird face. And it used its beak to tap on the glass again.  



	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's totally not Sam's fault that Hydra's, like, obsessed with him.

2. _  
  
  
(72 days before.)  
  
_

    “Yeah, I’m pretty goddamn sure I’m human,” Sam said shortly to the woman, not bothering to keep the sneer out of his voice. Fuck Hydra and fuck this lady in particular.  
“I know _your people_ don’t think of _my people_ as human, but--”  
  
    “No, _no_ , this… the tests, this never happened… we had so many candidates, _worthy_ candidates, and _you_ , you _n_ \--”  
  
Sam tensed, ready for something ugly to fall from the woman’s hateful lips, but Natasha had his back.  
  
    “I… fucking… _dare_ … you… to… finish… that… thought,” she said softly, pressing the muzzle of her gun against the other woman’s temple again.  
  
    “No matter,” the woman said, although her voice was shaky. “The mission is a success.”  
  
    “Your definition of ‘success’ is fucked, lady,” Clint scoffed.  
  
    “Is it? Your dear Captain seems a bit... _off,_ no?” The woman kept looking at Sam, who paid her no mind.

There it was again, that sickening feeling. Like several small, sharp fingers-- no, claws-- were being dragged across his skin. The feather-light voice invading his thoughts. _  
_ _  
_ _Brother, you need our help._ Sam’s jaw tightened with the effort of ignoring the whisper. He felt queasy.  
  
    “What is made, can be unmade,” the Hydra scientist was saying. While Sam had been mentally recoiling from the unwanted intrusion, she had focused with laser-like precision on him. She was shaking now, a flush of angry red creeping up her neck. Sam blinked and glanced over at Steve, and felt the shock jolt through his foggy mind. Steve was _small_ , his head several inches below Sam’s shoulders, his frame thin and all but lost inside his uniform.

  
    “Steve!” Sam started.  
  
_They are coming, brother! We will not let them hurt you. We will fight._

Natasha and Clint were also staring at Steve, startled.  
  
    “ _Cap_ _?_ Holy sh--”  
  
    “Hey--”  
  
The woman took advantage of their momentary distraction, and several things happened in rapid succession--

Sam felt like a metal band had snapped around his brain, the sharp pain lancing through him and making his posture stiffen. He felt it, like a tug forcing him to look outside of the blown-out wall that led outdoors.  
  
_Brother! We are here!  
_  
The woman had a knife (when did she get a knife?!) and was coming at Sam, who barely registered the flash of metal because his mind was a sickening whirlwind of sights and smells and sounds and _pain_ \--

Natasha’s gun went off, and a screamed “Hail Hydra!” choked off mid-‘Hail--’  
  
_We’re here, brother, we have stopped them. We--_  
  
_Pain, unbelievable pain as a bullet tore through Sam’s gut, through his wing_ (what? through his what?) _and his leg and he could feel an agonized screech trapped in his throat and he pressed his hands to his stomach and they came away_ clean, there was no blood, but he’d _felt_ it, jesus christ, and when he looked outside there were dozens of injured men and _hundreds_ of birds overhead. But some-- some were down on the grass, unmoving, and one large hawk was writhing on the ground. A bullet through its belly, another jagged wound through its wing. It fixed Sam with a beady eye and Sam --  
  
_You are all right, brother. Good. I am hurting. It… it hurts. Will it stop soon?_  
  
And it let out a soft, pained keening sound that Sam heard even over the loud metallic clatter of Steve’s shield falling out of his hand as he lost unconsciousness. When it twisted one last time, Sam felt the pain ripping through his own body. He retched violently as the remaining birds swirled overhead.

* * *

 _  
(70 days before.)  
  
_ Sam didn’t need the harsh overhead lights of the hospital room. Hell, he didn’t even really need the bedside lamp, either. The lights from the hallway and the buildings nearby were more than enough. Sam hadn’t needed to turn on any of the lights in his house since he’d gotten back. He’d also been almost unable to leave his home for the first day. The noise pressed in against his ears, he felt sickened by all the smells of the city-- how had he not noticed that before?? 

  
_Brother?_  
  
Shit. Christ. Here it was again. Sam really, _really_ didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. He glanced out of the window and saw a fat, bedraggled pigeon doing that fucking stupid twitchy headtilt thing that birds did.  
  
_You are angry, brother._  
  
Well, _yeah_ , because he was talking to fucking birds and couldn’t smell a hot dog without wanting to vomit.  
  
_You still grieve for Talon._  
  
Sam felt an echo of a twisted pain in his gut. He didn’t reply to the pigeon, and yes, he knew how fucking stupid that sounded. He couldn’t stop thinking about that hawk, its lifeblood an ugly contrast against its soft grey feathers. He thought about it every fucking night.  
  
_You grieve for your love as well._  
  
Sam heaved a sigh and looked over at the small, still form of Steve Rogers. It wasn’t grief he felt, but anger - he and Steve had already dealt with _so much shit_ and now Steve had potentially lost his powers, and Sam had _gained--_ something. More bullshit, mostly. Sam didn’t even register the ‘love’ part until later.  
  
_We grieve with you, brother._ Again with the ‘brother’ shit! Why did they have to talk so fuckin’ weird?!  
  
**What the fuck do you want?**  
  
A moment of reproachful silence, then: _I hear word that you have sustenance and shelter for our brethren, Samuel Wilson._  
  
**You mean the old bread and cardboard box I put in the backyard? Yeah, fuckin’ knock yourself out.**  
  
More silence, now tinged with haughtiness. _Very well. I will gladly partake._ Then, hesitantly: _What kind of bread, brother?_  
  
**I dunno. Half an old baguette, I think. Might be a bagel or two left.**  
  
_Wonderful!_  
  
It flew away, and Sam’s body sagged with relief. He hated talking to the damn birds. They were so formal and damn intrusive and he _couldn’t make them stop_. And they got offended easily, too. He’d thrown a rolled up newspaper at a flock of noisy starlings on the morning after the Hydra incident, and awoke the next morning to find his car absolutely _covered_ in bird shit.  
  
But… but. Now, Sam could just about get things under control. He could ignore the overwhelming sensory input, almost like straining his entire brain a little. He just couldn’t stop the damn _birds._    
  
He sighed deeply, moving his chair as quietly as he could to Steve’s bedside. He was still out cold, and had been for almost 3 days; his vitals were good enough, although nowhere near as robust as they had been when he’d had the serum. They still weren’t entirely sure what had happened in that Hydra lab, but it couldn’t have been anything good. Because _Hydra.  
  
_ Sam watched his friend’s thin chest rise and fall, lost in thought again. His own weight was down, way down, but he hadn’t lost any strength that he could tell. In fact… in fact, he was stronger. He’d tried working out to distract himself and had found he could go twice as long before needing a break. He’d broken more than one coffee mug in his distracted grip. But  worst were the eyes.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Sam had been unsure why his teammates had been darting such odd glances his way during their absolute fuckup of a mission, but when he’d first gone into his bathroom upon returning home, he’d been so startled that he’d let out an undignified yelp. Some creature was-- no, it was him, his eyes glowing cold copper in the dark room.  
  
(Oh jesus, oh _what the fuck_.)  
  
He hadn't been able to get that dying bird out of his mind-- and now this-- it was too much. Sam braced himself and flicked on the light, prepared to see a monster.  
  
It was him. Just him. His high cheekbones that his sister envied, his (somewhat bedraggled) goatee, that fucking gap in his teeth that all his girlfriends insisted was _cute_. It was all intact. He mostly looked tired.  
  
He let out a shaky sigh, taking a tentative step towards the mirror-- and then sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flashing metallic when he moved his head at certain angles. And then. And _then_ , a small, breathy voice.  
  
_Brother?_

\---  
  
  
  
_Brother! Brother!_  
  
**Huh? What? What, what?** Sam sat up slightly, shaken from his thoughts.  
  
_Samuel, brother, you must leave! They are coming!_  
  
**What? Who?  
  
**_Those who killed Talon. Those who wounded you and your lover_ \--  
  
**My** ** _what_** **?**  
  
    -- _are coming._  
  
**Where? Here? To the hospital?**  
  
_Yes._  
  
**Shit. Steve.**  
  
_No, brother, they come for_ ** _you_** _. They know of your change, and they wish to…_ the messenger, a harried-looking grackle, hopped from side to side agitatedly as it tried to think of the right phrase … _They wish to use you as an asset._  
  
Sam’s skin went cold. Asset. Hell, hell, _hell_ no.  
  
_You must_ ** _go_** _, brother._  
  
**But Steve--**  
  
_They will not harm your beloved, Samuel. They believe their work to be done. They are coming for you._  
  
Sam stood and headed for the door, but--  
  
_No, no! The healer-- he is one of them!_  
  
Sam found himself dangling out of a 9th floor window, trying not to let his ragged breathing be heard. The top of his head had just cleared the windowsill when the door opened and the doctor came in.  
  
A long pause. _Take care, Samuel. He knows you have been here. He looks for you._  
  
Maybe having a bunch of birds on his side wasn’t such a bad idea. He clung to the thought as firmly as his aching fingers clung to the rough concrete. It wasn’t as hard to hold himself up as it would have been before, but still.  
  
    “Ahh, Rogers… still not feeling well, I see,” the man’s voice barely reached Sam’s ears-- and with his newly enhanced hearing, that meant the man was probably whispering.  
“The great Captain. So frail now. I could easily kill you.”  
  
Sam’s abdominal muscles clenched, his body readying to scrabble back into the room and attack the ‘doctor’--

  
_Patience, brother! He does him no harm. Your paramour is safe._ Sam really needed to have a talk with these fluttering bozos about this ‘paramour’ and ‘lover’ nonsense. When he wasn’t holding onto a tiny ledge for dear life, that is. His arms were beginning to tremble a little with the effort, but he forced himself to ignore it and listen carefully.  
  
    “Perhaps it is better this way, as instructed. Watching you crumble from within will be far more satisfying than simply ending your life, _Captain._ ”  
  
Sam, sweating with the effort of holding on, still found himself rolling his eyes. Godd _damn_ , Hydra really, really liked to monologue.   
  
    “And when we find your friend, Rogers… I will take great personal pleasure in watching you kill each other.”  
  
Sam’s breath was coming harder now, but he heard the soft _click_ of the door closing and started to hoist himself up.  
  
_It is safe for now, Samuel. But you cannot go home. They are there, as well._ The grackle tilted its head, its little face somehow conveying graveness. _They have taken the bread, Samuel. I am sorry._  
  
Sam heaved himself into the room, stumbled rather ungracefully to the ground and just lay against the cool tiles for a moment, breathing heavily. His mind spun. Hydra knew about him. They wanted he and Steve to kill each other, but he’d never--  
  
Asset. Ahh. Well, never let it be said that Hydra didn’t know how to rework a classic. Barnes was still safe from Hydra’s reach in Wakanda, but Sam… he hadn’t seen this coming. And, to be fair, neither had Hydra. Sam didn’t know why the same toxin had stripped Steve of his powers, but imbued he himself with new ones.   
  
Steve stirred slightly, almost as if he could sense Sam was there. Sam stilled, his instincts telling him not to let his presence be known--  
  
    “Sam,” Steve rasped, before going still and quiet again.  
  
_He yearns for you, as you for him_.  
  
**Oh god, shut** ** _up_** **.**

* * *

  
_(4 days later.)_

 

 _Samuel._ _Samuel! There is danger!_  
  
Sam inhaled sharply as he jolted awake. There was a wild panic pressing behind his eyes, and he scrabbled backwards, extending his wings-- wait. No.  
  
**Get out of there** , he thought firmly, already reaching over to yank his phone charger out of the wall. He swept his gun into the waiting bag beside his bed and scrambled to his feet. 

  
_I am safe now, Samuel. I flew away. But they are looking for you nearby. Three people. One has a…_ the voice trailed off, perhaps out of range, perhaps too distracted by danger to make its thoughts clear.  
  
Sam wasted no time. He’d already pulled on his jeans and hastily shuffled into the bathroom to rinse out his mouth and splash lukewarm water on his face. His eyes reflected cold copper fire, but he didn’t cringe away any more. Instead, he quickly grabbed the pair of square hornrim glasses, shoving them carelessly onto his face. It was a pretty weak disguise, but any oddness about his irises could be easily played off as a trick of the light from the lenses. Hopefully.  
  
_Samuel! I am here. They are… not far. Perhaps they will be here before the sun goes._  
  
**Thanks, Swift. And the… others?**  
  
_I can feel your sadness, brother._ Sam hadn’t known beforehand that birds were so damn emotional, but they seemed to find it important to point out Sam’s every feeling, as well as their own (especially in regards to bread with those little seeds in it.)  
  
**I’m okay.**  
  
_You miss him. The one you love._  
  
Sam had long given up on explaining to the damn creatures that no, he and Steve were just _friends_ , and that was _fine_. They steadily ignored him, insisting that the feelings that they sensed whenever he thought about Steve were clear.  
  
_Still you doubt. He asks for you. He does not sleep. He is looking. He will not stop._  
  
**Yes, because we’re good friends. I’d do the same.**  
  
_You would do the same because you have love for him, too._  
  
**Don’t take this the wrong way, but shut the fuck up.**  
  
_You are worried; I will not take your disrespect to heart. Your companions are behind the dangerous ones. Perhaps in two suns they will be here._  
  
**Shit. Okay.**  
  
_I know of somewhere you can go. One who can offer help._

 

  
Sam checked out of the hotel and was gone 5 and a half hours before three perfectly polite, strangely unsettling people came looking for him.

  
\---

  
_This is Redwing. He was a friend of Talon._  
  
Sam felt something lurch in his stomach, and he realized that it was both how he felt and the thoughts of the huge hawk in front of him. Talon. The bird he’d watched die (hell, he felt like he’d kind of died _with_ the poor thing, in a way.)  
  
_Samuel. I’ve heard of you._  
  
**Uh… hopefully that’s a good thing.**  
  
_Not always. You’re apparently stingy with your croissants._  
  
Sam frowned for a moment before realizing-- **Did you just make a joke?**  
  
_Yes. Oddly enough, jokes aren’t solely the domain of humans._  
  
Sam felt himself smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks. It probably _was_ the first time, outside of whatever cover personas he’d been using to rent hotel rooms.  
  
_I thought you two would be friendly_ , Swift interjected with the faintest tinge of disapproval. _You are both very rude._

  
_You’re too serious,_ Redwing dismissed her. _This is a very … odd situation. One must see the humour in it._  
  
**_Thank_ ** **you!**  
  
_Your gift is very strong. We’ve met others like you, but your mind is almost like ours._  
  
**Being called a ‘bird-brain’ isn’t a compliment to humans, y’know.**

 _It is to us. You had a deep connection to Talon before he died. We felt his grief, his pain, and yours for him, bouncing back and forth. It was very difficult to bear for all nearby._  
  
**I’m… I’m sorry.**  
  
_Don’t apologize for empathy. Just don’t let his sacrifice have been in vain. You can’t get caught by these people._  
  
Sam barely had time to muse about how casual -- at least for a bird -- Redwing sounded. It put him at ease, in a way. Sam was about to say so, when a sudden flurry of panicked finches made himself and the two hawks freeze.  
  
**RUN. I mean FLY. Just-- GO.** Swift took off, but Redwing didn’t move except to focus on a spot behind Sam. Sam mentally cursed himself for stopping to eat in the Denny’s parking lot, but he was so damn hungry, and it was almost 2 in the morning. He’d thought keeping quiet in the dark lot would be cover enough. It had been so far.  
  
    “Wilson. We knew if we followed the birds, we’d find you.”  
  
Even as Sam tensed for a fight, he couldn’t help but think ‘“We followed the birds.” That sounds so fucking stupid. My life is some bullshit right now.’  
  
    “You’ve gotten away from us so far, Wilson. You know what we want. You know we won’t stop until we--”  
  
    “Okay, _seriously_ , does Hydra _never_ shut up? Is that your secret weapon? Monologuing people to death?” Sam snapped. Redwing ruffled his wings, radiating amusement.  
  
_Be careful. He has a … gub._ ** _  
_****_  
_****Gun.**  
  
_A gun, yes. He has one._  
  
    “All right, Wilson. No talking, then. I was gonna take it easy on you, but--”  
  
    “Fuck, you’re _still talking_ , man. Let’s just _go._ Damn.”  
  
Sam feinted to the right, adrenaline urging his muscles to twist and shift in ways he’d never thought his 40-something-year-old body could manage-- and the _phut_ of a silenced bullet whizzed past him, kicking up a spray of gravel where it struck the ground.  
  
Sam hadn’t been just running from Hydra; he’d been preparing. He’d been exercising, yes, but he’d been pushing the limits of his powers, seeing how far his eyes could strain (really fucking far), how strong he was (maybe a third as strong as Steve had been, which was _plenty_ ). This was the first time he’d come head-to-head with the enemy since the accident, though.  
  
Okay, so. So far, no injury (unless you counted scraped-up palms). If he could move fast enough to get the gun--  
  
_You forgot about me._  
  
Before Sam could even get all right way upright, the hawk had gone for the man’s face, merciless talons and beak tearing at his skin. Even as the man screamed and flailed, the gun swinging wildly at Redwing, the hawk’s mind was calm.

 _Sam, pay attention. He means to kill us._  
  
Right. Sam surged forward, drawing his fist back-- and Redwing, as though they’d been fighting together for years, flapped out of the way just before Sam’s punch landed on the man’s face--  
  
_Through_ the man’s face--  
  
Sam recoiled backwards away from the man, who fell heavily to the ground. He was making a sickening wet gurgling sound, and Sam heaved up everything he’d just eaten less than 20 minutes ago.  
  
_Fuck.  
  
_ Sam needed a moment. **Wait, did you swear? Birds swear?**  
  
_We can learn anything you can._  
  
Sam used the back of his unbloodied hand to swipe at his mouth, his movements jerky. **How do you know ‘fuck,’ but not ‘gun’?  
  
** _I know ‘gun.’ I misspoke._ Redwing fluttered awkwardly for a moment before settling heavily on Sam’s shoulder. It was a pretty intimate gesture for a bird, but it had a grounding effect as the hawk’s talons pressed lightly against Sam’s skin.  
_You want to help the man._  
  
**Kinda.**  
  
_He was trying to kill you. Kill us._  
  
**I know, but I-- I help people. That’s what I do.**  
  
_Fine._  
  
Sam walked on unsteady legs to the unmoving body of the man. A quick look at the ruin of his face told Sam that he was beyond saving, but he still made himself check the man’s vitals. The agent was dead.  
  
_Good._  
  
**Just… shut up a moment. Okay?**  
  
Sam stared at his fist, covered in congealing blood and viscera. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen gore, not by a long shot. But to cause it with his bare hands… is this what Steve went through? Did he have to hold back whenever he threw a punch? Sam knew the answer: anyone who could rip a metal door off its hinges was making a conscious decision not to murder people when he punched them. Sam had just learned that the hard way.  
  
With shaking hands, Sam used the rest of his bottled water to rinse off the blood.  
  
Redwing watched closely, perched on a parking cone.  
  
**I need help. I can’t-- jesus, I can’t do this.**  
  
_I know. They are nearby._  
  
**Shit. We should move.  
  
** _No, not the ones after you. Your companions. They are… less than one sun away._  
  
Sam was quiet, feeling his adrenaline fade away. He just felt sick, and cold, and tired. And lonely.  
  
**Redwing. I can’t thank you enough, man. I’m gonna… I think I’ll find a motel. I’m. Can… can you get them?**  
  
_I can.  
  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want Sam to have his stupid bird powers, okay? Maybe you agree. Come agree [here](sweet-coffee-jelly.tumblr.com).


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam handles shit like his last name is Pope.

3.  


_(25 minutes later.)_   


_Tap tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap--_  
  
    “God, if that thing doesn’t stop--”  
  
    “Nat, _shut the fuck up_ for a second…” Steve snapped, not hiding his irritation. The bird flapped agitatedly, almost as if it sensed Steve’s frustration. And it started tapping again, just quietly enough that the other diner patrons weren’t curious. Nat pressed her lips into a hard line, but leaned forward and watched as Steve unfolded his paper napkin, fished a pen from his satchel, and began making a series of… dots?  
  
Nat opened her mouth to ask if it was Morse code, but thought better when she saw the look of intense concentration on Steve’s face. She’d rip him a new one about being bitchy to her later.  
  
Steve was frowning hard, his body unconsciously leaning towards the glass as he struggled to hear the rhythmic taps. His hearing was no longer super-powered-- in fact, was worse than the average person, but he was determined. After a few more minutes of tense silence, Steve’s eyes widened slightly.   
  
    “Am I allowed to talk now, Rogers? What is that? It’s not Morse…”  
  
    “Sorry," Steve sighed. He'd been so much quicker to anger recently. "It’s not Morse,” he added, hastily signalling to the server for the bill. “It’s … it’s tap code.” He held up the napkin, and Natasha tilted her head at it, furrowing her brow.   
  
. ...  ... ....  ... ..  . .....  /  ..... ..  .. ....  .... ....  .. ...  /  ... ..  . .....  /  .... ...  . .  ... ..  /  ... ...  . .....  . .....  . ....  .... ...  /  .. ...  . .....  ... .  ... .....    
  
    “I don’t know what the fuck that says, Steve.”  
  
    “They don’t teach this in spy school?” Steve smirked, eliciting a scowl from her.   
  
    “You were less of an asshole when you were taller.”  
  
    “Yeah, well… yeah. Anyway, this is from Sam. We gotta go, _now_.”  
  
    “Sam? Sam has trained … redtail hawks?”  
  
    “That’s a hawk?” Steve asked distractedly, counting out the money (plus a generous tip, because he was still Steve Rogers) for the cheque.   
  
    “What, they don’t teach that in superhero school?”  
  
    “Pretty sure I flopped out,” Steve said, a little sharply. He smiled to ease the bitterness, but it faded quickly.   
“Sam needs us.”  
  
    “Let’s go.”  


* * *

 

  
Of course. Of _fucking_ course. Because Sam’s life was one never-ending parade of bullshit.   
  
    “--and we’re gonna make you suffer for what you did to our agent, Wilson.”   
  
    “I’m already fucking suffering, Chatty Cathy. Just shoot me so I don’t have to listen to you any more.”   
  
Seriously, _seriously_ , what was with people and talking in the middle of a fight?   
  


\---  
  
  
Sam had just barely drifted off into a groggy, uneasy sleep when he suddenly slammed all the way awake. He made sure not to move or indicate that he’d woken up, but his eyes darted to the shadow in the corner.   
  
    “So it’s true, you _do_ have our gifts,” the man murmured.   
  
    “Sure. Y’all do exchanges? Returns?”   
  
    “Your eyes are exquisite,” the Hydra agent said softly. Sam shuddered, feeling his skin go all clammy at the merest hint of someone like that finding _anything_ about him attractive.   
  
    “Any chance I can get you to leave quietly?” Sam asked, somewhat plaintively. He flicked on the wall light over his bedside table and sighed deeply. He really, _really_ didn’t want to fight. Especially after what he’d accidentally done to the other Hydra operative.   
  
    “Your talents will be useful to Hydra,” the man said, clearly ignoring him. “We’ve seen your handiwork… in the Denny’s parking lot.”  
  
Sam laughed. He couldn’t help it-- something about big bad Hydra uttering the words ‘Denny’s parking lot’ in a serious voice was just too fucking funny.  
  
He stopped laughing when the man fired a warning shot into the wall above him, showering him with plaster. A man in the room beside him screamed once, loudly, and then was silent. Sam felt sick again; people were getting hurt because Hydra couldn’t fucking chill for _once._   
  
  
\---  
  
  
And now the guy was fucking monologuing. Of course.   
  
    “...for the glory of Hydra. We see past your skin colour, Wilson-- we can see your immense potential.”  
  
Sam raised one eyebrow. “Your squid-Nazi organization is an equal opportunity employer? Is that what the fuck you’re saying to me?”  
  
    “We’ll have to something about that mouthiness of yours, though,” the other man sighed, a millisecond before lunging at him. Sam barely had time to take in a sharp breath of surprise before his body was moving, twisting around and using the springiness of the mattress to execute a surprisingly elegant backflip onto the ground. Sam even managed a three-point landing; the effect was only a little bit ruined because he accidentally kicked the watercolour painting off the wall. Oh, well. He could work on being perfect after not getting killed--  
  
The Hydra agent was still moving, carried forward slightly by momentum-- and Sam took two running steps toward him, intending to drive his elbow into the small of the man’s back. But then the ruined face of the other agent flashed in his mind and Sam jerked back. He couldn’t make himself accidentally break the dude’s back.   
  
Sam settled for the man’s leg, instead.   
  
The agent didn’t scream, only letting out a gust of air as he crumpled to the ground, still gripping his pistol even as his face crumpled in pain. Sam would be impressed if the dude wasn’t a fucking Nazi. He was going ashen in the dim light of the bedside light, his hand shaking only a little as he trained the gun on Sam.   
  
    “If you won’t come to Hydra--”  
  
Sam moved over to him, quickly enough that the man jerked slightly with surprise.   
“Shut up. Seriously.” Sam encircled the man’s wrist with his thumb and index finger, a surprisingly delicate grip.  
  
The man was sweaty and sallow now, the pain from his leg making his voice come out rough and shaky. He laughed once, ugly and mocking, and spat at Sam’s feet.   
“We should have known better than to expect a filthy--”  
  
    “ _Nah_ , man. I told you to shut the fuck up.” Sam braced himself and _squeezed_ , and the man let out a real scream as his wrist broke, the gun slipping from his useless fingers.   


* * *

  
    “Think that’s the right room?” Nat asked dryly, jerking her head towards the room that the choked-off howl of pain had come from.   
  
    “Shit, was that Sam?” Steve asked, struggling to control his breathing. He was slowly walking backwards, covering Nat (she hadn’t even tried to keep him from coming with her; he was still a good shot even if he couldn’t bench as much nowadays.)   
  
    “Let’s hope n--” her words were cut short as she nudged open the door to the room. Sam was kneeling beside a man who was slumped over, and when he turned to face Nat it was so swiftly that she stilled immediately. His eyes… she hadn’t imagined it, then, back at the Hydra base. They shone unsettlingly in the dark-- but then Sam smiled, and it was _him._   
  
    “Steve, he’s here. He’s okay.”  
  
    “Relatively speaking, yeah. Better than _this_ asshole, anyway.” Sam used his foot to nudge the man’s leg, and he let out a loud yelp.   
  
    “ _Sam!_ ” Steve at least had the sense to glance up and down the hallway before crowding into the room after Natasha and closing the door behind him. He stopped short, only briefly brought up short by Sam’s strange eyes-- and then he was moving quickly towards Sam. He stopped just short of his friend, breathing hard, and the air between them lay heavy.   
  
    “ _Fuck,_ just kiss already,” Natasha muttered, looking away to check the barely conscious Hydra agent for weapons.   
  
_I agree, Sam_. Redwing was perched in a tree just outside Sam’s room. _I can sense that you want to._  
  
**Can you sense that I want you to mind your fucking business?**  
  
_Yes. Also, there are more Hyper agents coming._  
  
**Hyp-- no. Hydra, dude. Hydra.**   
  
_Yes, those._  
  
The mental exchange had happened too quickly for anyone to notice Sam’s distraction, and he smoothly returned his attention to his companions. Clapping a friendly hand on Steve’s shoulder, he pulled him in for a quick hug. Steve was -- small. His body was thin, all bones and angles, and he felt so breakable; but Sam knew better than to make that assumption. Steve’s bravery had never come from his muscles.   
  
    “Don’t-- don’t fuckin’ _do_ that, Sam. Run from us.”  
  
    “Sorry, man. A lot of shit happened, you know?”  
  
Steve pulled back to look up into Sam’s eyes, his glasses fogging slightly from the body heat trapped between them. He raised his hand to Sam’s face, unthinkingly pressing his fingers to Sam’s temple. He didn’t look away even when Sam’s eyes burned with cold fire in the dim room; in fact, his heart sped up a little. He could feel the strength thrumming through the other man, and instead of making him feel small or weak, he felt… he felt strong, too--  
  
    “If you two are finished posing for a Harlequin cover, we should go,” Nat said, snapping the two men out of it. They moved swiftly apart from each other, Sam clearing his throat and walking over to his bed to gather his few items into his bag. Steve, flushing obviously even in the poorly lit room, busied himself cleaning his glasses on his shirt (he succeeded in smudging them pretty badly, instead.)  
  
_I like this woman._  
  
**Yeah, you** ** _would_** **.**   
  
_Hurry, Sam. More Hyper agents are coming._  
  
**You’re just doing that to piss me off now.**  
  
_Yes._

 

* * *

 

 _(2 days later.)  
  
  
_     “Birds.”  
  
    “Yeah, I know.”  
  
    “So you can talk to birds? Like… you tweet at them?”  
  
    “Fuck you, Rogers.”  
  
    “It was a genuine question.”  
  
    “ _No_ , I don’t fucking… chirp at them. It’s mental.”  
  
    “Tell me about it,” Nat muttered from the backseat, where she was ostensibly napping.   
  
    “You can shut up too, Romanov.”  
  
    “I didn’t say anything; I’m sleeping,” she murmured, not bothering to keep the amusement out of her voice.  
  
    “I don’t mean to sound like I’m makin’ fun, Sam,” Steve said ruefully.  
  
    “Sure.”  
  
    “Okay, I do. A little. But-- okay, what are _those_ birds thinking?” Steve asked, pointing at a flock of geese who were contentedly settled in a field by the road.  
  
    “Both hands on the wheel, Steve. Fuck.”  
  
    “I’m _short_ , I didn’t forget how to fuckin’ _drive_.” Sam didn’t comment on Steve’s touchiness about his physical change, but he wasn’t about to act any differently around him than he always had.  
  
    “Yeah, gramps, and you were always a shitty driver.”  
  
    “You said I drove like … what’s the movie called, _Quick and Angry_ \--”  
  
    “Oh jesus fuck. It’s the _Fast and the Furious_ and I _know_ you know that.”  
  
Steve didn’t look away from the road, but his mischievous grin was easy to see. At least _that_ hadn’t changed.  
  
    “So. What were the geese thinking?”  
  
Sam sighed and focused; it was faint, since they’d whipped past the birds moments ago, but Sam’s range seemed to be growing a little with each passing day.   
“They’re mostly sleepy. A few worrying about predators. I think there are some babies there.”  
  
    “Anyone coulda guessed that,” Steve smirked, reaching down to change gears. Sam maybe… had some _thoughts_ about the smooth, confident way Steve handled the machine, even if he had to nudge his glasses back up his nose every 10 minutes.  
  
_When will you mate?  
  
_**Redwing, why are you like this? And why are you following us?**  
  
_You like me._  
  
**_You_** **like** ** _me._**   
  
_Yes. Will Steven be more forthcoming if I peck him, you think?_  
  
    “Redwing hates you,” Sam said aloud, barely keeping the amusement out of his voice. Not technically true, but when would he pass up an opportunity to needle Steve?  
  
    “He likes me,” Steve shot back, glancing away from the road to flash a quick grin at Sam. He couldn’t bring himself to say how much he’d missed this -- their back and forth, the way Sam didn’t treat him any different from when he’d had his supersoldier powers. And other things. Maybe. His voice. The way he bit at his lower lip when something was worrying him. The way his eyes sparkled when he laughed -- even if nowadays it was tinged with flashes of metallic copper from certain angles. It didn’t bother Steve. In fact… and this was a thought he jealously guarded and could barely look at… in fact, it was beautiful. Sam was beautiful. 

  
Ahhh, shit.   
  
    “Redwing likes _Nat,_ ” Sam was correcting him, smirking.   
  
    “Everyone likes me,” Nat murmured sleepily. She sat up with a long sigh, leaning forward to put her hands on Sam and Steve’s shoulders.   
“When you two finally work up your nerve to ask each other to the prom, can we stop to eat?”   
  
There was an awkward pause.   
  
_I like--_   
  
**Yes, Redwing, you like Nat, I know.**   
  
    “Is Mexican okay?” Steve blurted, breaking the tension. Sam gladly latched on, getting out his smartphone to look for the nearest restaurant and ignore Steve’s pink cheeks.   
  
Natasha exuded smugness even as they messily ate tacos, Steve sitting cross-legged on the car’s hood (one plus of his new stature is that he could do things like that without breaking or denting stuff.) Sam leaned against the car, looking up with an unreadable expression.   
  
A hawk wheeled high above them, a dark shape against the startling blue sky.   


* * *

 

_(3 weeks later.)_

  
    “Okay, then what the fuck do you _want_ to do, Rogers?”  
  
    “Not that. I’ll just have another asthma attack.” Steve’s face was twisted with anger, and Sam wasn’t far off himself.  
  
    “Then _make a suggestion_ , ‘cause this has gone on too long. Fine, no jogging. But _you_ wanted to start working out again.”  
  
    “Just-- leave me alone, Sam.”  
  
    “Drop the attitude and act like an adult.”  
  
    “Why don’t you _make_ me, big guy?”  
  
Sam was surprised into a burst of laughter, their angry tension broken in a second. Steve looked slightly embarrassed, but he huffed out a laugh. His face was still a splotchy, angry red, but his body language relaxed as he watched Sam clutch his stomach, still laughing.   
  
    “It wasn’t _that_ funny, Wilson,” Steve muttered.   
  
    “It very much fuckin’ _was,_ though. Did you seriously just call me ‘big guy’? Like some tiny Brooklyn mobster from a movie?”  
  
    “I’m not _tiny_ , shit.”  
  
    “No,” Sam amended, smiling gently. They’d been fighting on and off almost the minute they’d returned to their shared apartment; Steve was a lot angrier about his change than he’d let on, and Sam wasn’t about to let him tear himself apart (or be dickish to Sam himself.)   
  
    “Sit down.”  
  
    “I’m not a dog, Sam.”  
  
    “You’re _acting_ like a fucking chihuahua, but I wasn’t gonna say that. Sit the fuck down. We’re talking.”  
  
    “I’m a very repressed man from the 1930s. We don’t talk about our feelings.”  
  
    “Real cute, old-timer. Sit your ass down.” Sam slapped a bottle of protein shake into Steve’s hand before flopping onto the couch. He uncorked his water bottle and was already halfway through the bottle by the time Steve had stopped sulking enough to sit.   
  
Sam watched Steve moodily open his shake and sip at it-- he wasn’t able to hide how his face softened at the taste. Steve never quite got over the awe of something tasting like a vanilla milkshake being _good_ for him.   
  
    “Better?”  
  
Steve made a disgruntled sound, but a small smile curled his lips.   
  
    “Good. I could tell your blood sugar was getting low, because you’re being even more of a dick than usual.”  
  
    “I wasn’t-- I… sorry.”  
  
    “Yeah, I know. So. Talk. Only so many times ‘sorry’ is gonna work, man. It’s getting annoying.”  
  
    “Talk about what?” Steve chewed at his lower lip, unconsciously mimicking Sam’s habit.  
  
    “Look, I’m asking as your friend. I know shit’s been… rough. But you’re acting like an asshole and I’m not gonna put up with it. I’m serious. I’ll move out.”  
  
Steve slowly lowered his protein shake, swallowing visibly.   
  
    “Okay. Okay, I understand. I’m-- I really am sorry.” _That_ was more like the Steve he’d known.   
  
    “Thanks. So…”  
  
    “So.”  
  
Sam took slow sips of his water, listening as Steve talked about his frustration, the sickening confirmation of what he’d always secretly feared -- that he’d been living in a borrowed body, a borrowed life. That he couldn’t help people any more.  
  
What he _hadn’t_ expected was for Steve to look directly at him and say, “So, what’s up with you?”  
  
    “Me?”  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
    “I’m good.”  
  
    “Don’t try that, Sam. I know you. You’ve been through a lot too, and no one’s asked-- I didn’t ask--” He frowned a little. “Your feelings are important too,” he added more quietly.   
  
    “Thanks, Oprah.”  
  
    “Stop deflecting.”  
  
    “I _hate_ when you use my own lingo against me.”  
  
    “I know, Counsellor. Just-- please. I’m here. Talk to me.”  
  
    “Dammit.”  
  
Sam took rather longer to get to the meat of the matter, hesitantly talking about his new abilities and how they’d felt like an invasion, like his body had been taken from him. Steve nodded slowly as Sam finally talked about his horror that he could so easily kill now, without meaning to, and that Hydra had been the cause of him becoming superpowered.   
  
    “So now I’m scared to touch anyone because I might… fuckin’ break them,” Sam said, glancing away and slumping in on himself a little.  
  
    “But… you touch me.”  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “In the motel where we found you. You said you just broke that guy’s bones, no problem, but you didn’t hurt me.” Steve smiled wanly. “And I’m a little easier to break than usual, nowadays.”  
  
Sam frowned a little. He _had_ touched Steve (not like _that_ , Redwing, shut the fuck up). Clasped him in a one-armed hug when Steve had completed 3K on the treadmill in just under an hour and a half. Shook his hand when they’d made a bet about who could eat more pancakes (surprisingly, Steve had won that one.) And once, when Steve’s back pain had been particularly bad, a massage. He’d never even thought about the possibility of hurting Steve. He never could.   
  
    “Huh. I… yeah, you’re right,” Sam hummed. “Guess I’m okay with people I like, then.”  
  
    “Yeah?” Steve asked, a tiny smirk quirking one side of his mouth. Behind his glasses, his eyes had darkened a little, and Sam found they were leaning forward, getting into each others’ space.  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
_Why don’t you touch me now, then?_ Steve didn’t ask. He was confused when Sam’s eyes widened a little.   
  
    “What?”  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “You, uh. You asked me to touch you.”  
  
Steve’s eyes widened. _Dammit._  
  
    “Well. _Well_. It’s-- I--”  
  
    “Do you want me to?” Sam asked, low and quiet. He could feel Redwing’s triumph, even from the roof where the hawk’s aviary was.  
  
**Shut up, Redwing.**  
  
_No._  
  
    “Yes,” Steve said, and if it was a little breathy, well.   
  
Sam paused briefly and then took Steve’s hands, delicately tracing the veins in his arms, taking his time. He felt Steve relax; although he knew Steve was still coming to terms with his new body, it didn’t hurt to remind him that Sam liked Steve regardless. Steve moved one of his hands from Sam’s and almost reverentially touched his fingers to the smooth brown skin near Sam’s eyes, the main source of his discomfort with his new powers. Steve tried to put into touch what he couldn’t say aloud without feeling silly. _Beautiful._   
  
Sam’s face softened as he understood. As they both quietly appreciated the changed physicality of each others’ bodies. He let his fingers trail up Steve’s arm, lifting his other hand to touch delicately at the hollow of Steve’s throat.   
  
He opened his mouth to ask, “Like this?” when Steve all but leapt on him, mashing their mouths together.   
  
Redwing was mercifully silent, perhaps withdrawing to give Sam some privacy as he shuddered under Steve’s hands and mouth.   
  
The little guy was still fuckin’ bossy.   


* * *

_  
(2 months, 1 week, 4 days later.) _

  
    “I did good, huh.” Steve’s voice cut through the darkness, making Sam’s eyes flutter open. The gleaming reflection of his eyes focused on Steve, who unthinkingly brushed his fingertips across Sam’s temple as he always did. Reassuring him. Even after all this time, Sam still felt a little uneasy about his eyes, although Steve went to great lengths to tell him that they weren’t frightening or monstrous to him, but beautiful.  
  
    “Yeah, you did good, Cap.” Sam’s nickname for Steve had made him roll his eyes at first, but now he could hear the affection behind it and it made something small and fierce unfold in his chest.   
  
    “I wanted to talk about that, Sam. The ‘Cap’ thing.”  
  
    “Mhmm?” Sam moved away from Steve in their bed, flicking on the bedside lamp. Steve took a moment to scrabble for his glasses so that he could take in Sam the way he loved him best; soft and vulnerable (and yes, he’d have to fight Sam if he _ever_ said that aloud.) Sam’s eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep, the coppery gleam mostly hidden by the warm yellow lamp-light. He was a study in beautiful contrasts, his strong hands moving gently over Steve’s bandaged knuckles, his powerful body relaxed and half-hidden in bedclothes. Steve loved him so much that he felt the urge to punch something.  
  
    “What ‘Cap’ thing?” Sam murmured, apparently satisfied with the state of Steve’s bandages. “You gotta go easier on the punching bag, man. You did good today; you’re getting stronger, but it’ll be a hell of a setback if you break a finger.”  
  
    “I still know how to throw a punch, y’know.”  
  
    “I know. What ‘Cap’ thing you talking about?”  
  
    “Well… Nat and I were talking.”  
  
    “Uh-oh.”  
  
    “Oh, _haha._ Anyway… I’m getting-- I’m getting better with computers, and Nat said I could probably start scouting missions now…”   
  
Sam smiled a little at the hesitant pride in Steve’s voice. Although Banner was still working on a cure for the effects of the toxins on Steve’s body, Steve had busied himself by picking up other skills. He hadn’t just been dumb muscle, after all-- he’d been a brilliant strategist as well. A month ago, Natasha had gotten sick of seeing him mope around and had given him 5 files. Her personal missions. She’d informed him that he was in charge of procuring intel, of helping her and Sam run missions over their secure comms. He’d bristled at first, chafing at the idea of “desk work”-- until he’d put together a pattern that had eluded S.H.I.E.L.D when it still existed, and that Natasha hadn’t had the time to pore over. The thrill had been the same-- no, _better--_ than being in battle.  
  
    “Sam… how would you like to take up the shield?”  
  
    “What.”  
  
    “I’m serious. I think… there needs to be _a_ Captain America. Doesn’t mean it’s gotta be me.”  
  
Sam’s mind reeled. He wasn’t overly worried about the physical aspect; even before his powers, he’d held his own fairly well. But the symbolism, the pressure, the expectations that came with being Captain America…  
“Why d’you think it should be me, though?”  
  
    “You deserve it.”  
  
    “...says the man I’m literally in bed with.”  
  
    “What, afraid they’ll say you slept your way to the top?”  
  
    “...a little,” Sam said quietly. Steve elbowed Sam, making him huff out a surprised sound. 

    “Watch it, Rogers, those things are _sharp_. Shit.”   
  
    “You deserve it because a) you’re brave, b) you’re smart, c) you’re one of the best fighters I’ve ever met, and oh yeah, d) _you can communicate with birds_.”   
  
    “My… bird powers… are fuckin’ stupid, man.”   
  
    “Okay-- what about those seagulls that warned you about the A.I.M submarines near Okha a couple of weeks ago?”   
  
    “That--”   
  
    “And the sparrow that gave you the heads up about the bomb at City Hall?”   
  
    “It--”   
  
    “ _And_ ,” Steve continued, his voice only shaking a little, “when Redwing stopped you from getting fucking sniped just. Last. Week.”   
  
    “Steve, stop. I’m okay. I’m here.”   
  
    “I know… I just-- you almost died.”   
  
    “How you think the rest of us felt when your dumb ass used to go looking for trouble?”   
  
Steve pulled Sam to him, burying his face against Sam’s neck and ignoring how it sent his glasses askew.   
“I know now,” Steve mumbled against Sam’s skin. “It’s the pits.”   
  
    “Yeah.”   
  
    “You should still be Captain America.”   
  
    “I’ll think about it.”   
  
    “I sketched up a costume for you.”   
  
    “Please tell me you didn’t.”   
  
    “I did. It’s real sexy.”   
  
    “Steve, _no_.”   


* * *

_  
(Today.) _

  
    “Okay, the white was a good choice,” Sam mused, turning to look at the costume from different angles. He briefly touched the large white star on his chest, breathing out slowly to ease his nerves.   
  
    Steve made a little grunt of effort as he picked up the vibranium shield, and his arms still shook a little with the strain of carrying it despite the small amount of sinewy muscle that he’d been training so hard to gain and keep. But this was important, to both of them.   
  
    “Here,” he said, his voice a little rough. Sam hesitated for the briefest of moments before taking the shield from Steve’s hands, settling his arm through the straps. Steve’s breath caught in his throat. Sam looked powerful, heroic. He looked _right._   
  
    “How’s it look?” Sam asked, hoisting the shield to test its heft. He’d have to train with it to get the hang of throwing it at just the right angles, but luckily he’d have a pretty good teacher.  
  
    “It looks… perfect,” Steve said. Neither he nor Sam said anything about how choked-up Steve sounded.   
  
    “Oh, wait--” Sam shrugged his shoulders, and his mechanical wings unfolded smoothly, the burnished red plates gleaming proudly in the sinking sun.   
  
Steve took a sharp breath in. Sam glanced over, his eyebrows raised in mute question.   
  
    “I was wrong,” Steve said. “ _This_ is perfect. Captain America can finally fly.” He laughed, running his hands through his hair and looking at Sam with open wonder (and, to be honest, a little bit of lust) on his face.  
  
The moment swelled between them, almost painful with its intensity. The pride, the excitement, the tiny prickle of nerves about how the world would react to Sam Wilson: Captain America.  
  
Nat walked briskly into the room and stopped briefly, taking in Sam’s uniform with a raised eyebrow.   
  
    “Nice threads, Cap,” she said appreciatively. “Hate to break up the fashion show, but--”  
  
Sam looked sharply out the large window, where Redwing and several pigeons were flapping--  
  
The thick black band on Steve’s wrist blipped, throwing up a shivering blue hologram--  
  
Natasha pressed her fingers to her ear, clearly listening to something on the tiny device hidden in her ear--  
  
    “Hydra,” the three of them sighed. Sam gave Steve a rueful grin.   
  
    “Duty calls.”  
  
    “Yeah, seems about right for your first day. Take the North…” Steve frowned and made a complicated gesture with his fingers, rotating and enlarging the image. “Scratch that. Six in the vents. Nat. And Sam… Cap…” Steve’s smile was a little bit wicked. “There are some on the roof. Think you can get up there?”  
  
    “Oh, I think I'll just about manage,” Sam smirked back, tucking a pistol into his belt. Nat scoffed.  
  
    “We’ve got a situation on our hands, and you two are _still_ flirting? Seriously? Now?”  
  
    “Aw, c’mon, Nat. Ten Hydra agents hardly count as a situation--”  
  
_More agents are coming, Sam. Hurry. I’m eager to tear into the bastards._  
  
Redwing sounded more and more like Sam each day.  
  
    “More are coming, Steve.”   
  
    “Oop-- yeah. Make that… twenty… three agents.”  
  
    “Does _that_ count as a fucking situation, Rogers?” Nat snapped, flashing a toothy grin before darting from the room.   
  
Sam glanced at Steve, who was watching the small dots on the hologram moving. Steve’s eyes met his, his look was full of fierce pride and love. Sam’s lips curled slowly and his eyes flashed copper just before he lowered his red-tinted goggles over them.  
  
    “Knock ‘em dead, Cap,” Steve murmured into the comm, unable to tear his eyes away when Sam leapt without hesitation from the edge of the huge open window, his wings glowing crimson in the sun.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
    “The first one to start monologuing gets shot,” Sam called moments later, hovering several feet above the startled Hydra agents.   
  
One of the men opened his mouth, but was rudely interrupted when a furious pigeon collided with his face. Several floors down in the control room, Steve was crying with laughter. Sam’s own laugh, breathless with adrenaline, echoed back (Natasha would laugh later when she saw the footage.)  
  
One Hydra agent didn’t even get his gun up in time before the flat of the shield hit him in the midsection, driving the air from him.   
  
The man in the costume-- was that… Captain America? A _black_ Captain America? The man in the costume executed a surprisingly graceful mid-air pirouette, and the agent was too busy staring to notice that the Captain’s wings were very deliberately aimed for his face.  
  
  
Just before he lost consciousness, the agent thought _At least it wasn’t a fucking pigeon_.  
  
  
Sam never even had to draw his gun, Redwing had a grand old time, and several usually-docile pigeons had very exciting stories to tell their friends later.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this isn't the last time I'll be writing about these guys.
> 
> The only thing I want more than Sam's dumb bird powers is Cap!Sam.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come yell at me about Samsteve and Sam Wilson in general over [here](http://sweet-coffee-jelly.tumblr.com/)


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